folds.
âWhatâs this all about?â Uncle Max asks.
âI didnât want you to stick a knife into Tataâs throat,â I whisper, without looking up at him. Everyone watches me in silence as I set the knives in their proper places at the table. When each of them has a knife and Iâm back in my seat, Uncle Max taps his fork
on his glass to get everyoneâs attention and addresses the room as if he were making an announcement over a loudspeaker:
âFrom now on, no one is to speak about anything in front of the Child,â he says, his cheeks flushed as his glance catches mine. âExcept about butterflies and flowers.â
THE HOUSE
WE LIVE ON A QUIET, tree-lined street, wedged between two of Bucharestâs loveliest parks. Grandpa Yosef found the two-family house and rented the second-floor apartment shortly after the Communists nationalized all private property, including Grandpaâs businesses and the several houses he owned before the war.
A Russian family with no children lives in the ground-floor apartment. Iâve been given strict orders by Aunt Puica never to converse with the Russians, as if that explains everything. They own a gray cat with yellow eyes that is always perched on their stoop, but the cat is off-limits too.
âHaving the Russians downstairs is far from ideal,â Grandma Iulia reminds us every chance she gets. âBut itâs a whole lot better than having to live with strangers inside our home. That would be like sleeping with the devil!â
No one dares contradict Grandma Iulia, even though I know that there are days when my parents desperately want to move out and secretly talk about looking for better quarters. Mama and Tata never act on this dream, primarily because they know that, as soon
as we leave, the Communists will place strangers in the tiny bedroom the three of us share. This would put our entire family at great risk from informers and the Securitate, Romaniaâs secret police.
âLook at whatâs happened to Fanny.â Grandma Iuliaâs voice interrupts the slurping sounds around the dinner table. âHer son and daughter-in-law moved out, and now my poor sister has to share her stove and her toilet with a couple of hicks from Bucovina, with such heavy provincial accents, Fanny says sheâs not even sure that theyâre speaking Romanian. The wife fries everything, so Fannyâs entire house now reeks of onions, garlic, and bacon fat!â Grandma wriggles her nose in disgust. âMy sisterâs clothes smell so bad that, no matter how many times she does the wash, she canât get the cooking stench out. Fannyâs frightened that these people will denounce her for making slurs against the Party. She says she bites her tongue three times before she opens her mouth in her own home.â
My parents are well aware that neighbors, colleagues, even friends and family membersâespecially childrenâoften do become informers, intentionally or unintentionally. They roll their eyes at Grandmaâs tirades, but itâs clear theyâre in agreement with her, because they are so careful about every word that crosses their lips outside the house. At home, they let loose as if weâre safe. We all know that moving out has grave consequences, which is why virtually all families in Bucharest stick together, tight quarters or not.
Still, Grandma Iulia never misses an opportunity to drive home her point.
âIf they hold a grudge against any of you,â she says, shaking her soup spoon at us without explaining who they are, âthey can report
you for saying something against the Party, and the Securitate is sure to pick you up in the middle of the night. Whether their accusation is true or not, youâre guilty. And may I remind you, from the place where the Securitate takes you, trust meââGrandma stops in midsentence to make sure that her message has sunk inââyou
Marc Nager, Clint Nelsen, Franck Nouyrigat